The Slow Way: Lent, and How Sometimes It’s Simple

Let’s keep watching for what God does. By which I mean, let’s watch God love us.

for the frantic strivers, serial doers, and weary achievers

This week I started reading Savannah Guthrie’s new book on faith, Mostly What God Does. I had a chance to hear her speak in person a week or so ago and was moved by the way she spoke of her faith in a non complicated, open-hearted way. I bought her book because her presence when she spoke of God was generous and invitational. And since there are never enough generous and invitational voices of faith in the world, I’m committed to supporting each one I find!

I tend to read books making profound spiritual leaps, doing rich theological digging. And it’s been a while since I picked something up that was a little more straightforward. As a person in the limelight, Savannah is attempting to answer the question of what she believes about God. And she doesn’t feel the need to explain much of how she got there intellectually, only what it is that keeps, and has kept, her in faith. And what keeps her is love. Her premise that “mostly what God does is love us,” carries the whole book.

In my life of faith, I haven’t had (or made?) a lot of room for spiritual simplicity. That might be my downfall. My faith has always felt complicated, intense, demanding. I spent years trying to prove to God that I was good enough to deserve a gold star. Then I spent years questioning, doubting, and reordering everything I believed. And now, I spend my life peeling back the layers of unhealthy beliefs that have weighed me down, exploring what spiritual growth actually looks like, and attempting to put the unnameable presence of God into words. All of this is important. Naming what’s unnamable has saved my faith, and I know that this is one of the callings of my life.

But also? I think I often miss out on the gift of an uncomplicated faith. I forget that love is sometimes simply love.

This morning I walked Ace out the door, his backpack buckled across his chest, the pool ring he loves to twirl circling around his finger all the way from porch to street. He climbed on the bus by himself and his aide helped him settle into his seat and buckle his seatbelt. As always, he stared out the window at me while I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for him to drive away. His aide helped him wave goodbye and I made an “I love you” sign and kissed the two fingers bent in the middle of my palm before holding out my “I love you” toward him. He stared at me back, the way he always does, receiving it, knowing that my love is true. Nothing complicated there. 

I thought of Savannah’s book, particularly one short chapter called “Present Tense”: 

“Where is God? What is his exact location?

He is now.

He is not in a place; he is in a moment. 

This one. 

Every one. 

Eternally.”

On the next page she writes, “God is always communicating in the present tense.”

Sometimes I forget the goodness of this. That God is on the sidewalk outside the school bus kissing God’s own two fingers in the middle of that “I love you.” There is no amount of understanding, explaining, leading, uncovering of knowledge that any of us has to do to receive that offering of love. 

All we have to do is look out the window so we can notice it. 

Around here we’ve been thinking about the active work of God in us this Lent, what it actually looks like to allow this season to be disruptive and recentering. Last week we talked about allowing our moments of vulnerability to move us toward wholeness. And this week, I want to remind us that the movement toward wholeness doesn’t have to be that complicated. Maybe it’s simply allowing ourselves to recognize that we’re loved. What if our practice this week of Lent is to do what Ace does, to simply to sit on the bus, look out the window, and see the One who loves us offering that love right now? In the present tense. 

A Slow Practice:

This week I picked up A Celtic Primer: The Complete Celtic Worship Resource and Collection, a book that I found at a used bookstore last month on a trip to the Hudson Valley.

Here’s something the Introduction of the book says, “It is better to ‘surrender’ to what is read in a spirit of humility rather than to try to ‘interpret’ or ‘master the Word.’” It goes on to talk about the practice of Lectio Divina, explaining the practice as “muttering” and “savoring” the words of the scripture. I learned the practice of Lectio Divina fifteen years ago, but was delighted to hear a new way of thinking about the gentle and slow reading and listening to the divine voice through the text. Lectio Divina means “sacred reading,” and I have always connected to the idea of reading a small passage with a steadied and quiet attention, believing that God wants to speak through it. 

Muttering is the word I keep coming back to. What a strange word for the practice of prayer! And yet there’s something so earthy and quotidian about that word. If our practice as we enter this fifth week of Lent is to pay attention to the simplest reality of our faith: God loves us. Then maybe our prayers should be pretty simple too: “I see that You love me. I receive Your love.”

And so I invite you to two practices this week. First, I invite you to mutter! Out loud! This is weird, I know. But maybe the sun is out wherever you are, and maybe there’s a moment you can find to be outside alone, where muttering won’t be considered quite as eccentric! Find a passage of scripture or a prayer that sticks with you, maybe the one Savannah Guthrie comes back to over and over in her book, The Message version of Ephesians 5:1-2: “Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you.” 

Maybe your practice of muttering looks like repeating a couple of simple lines from this passage: “Watch what God does,” or “Mostly what God does is love you,” and look for what happens when those words are flowing from you. You might actually start watching for what God does, right?

Also, I want to give you a Celtic prayer to close this time with and carry with you this week. I think it’s a beautiful Lenten prayer about opening up to God’s work, and expecting transformation:

Let’s pray it together:

“O Son of God, change my heart,

Your spirit composes the songs of the birds and buzz of the bees. 

I ask of you only one more miracle:

Beautify my soul.” 

What a thing to mutter. Let’s keep watching for what God does this week. By which I mean, let’s watch God love us.